I believe I’m hitting the overly emotional part of my pregnancy.
Example 1: Our 9 month old puppy is still struggling with potty training. That’s too damn old. We’ve started Puppy Boot Camp for him because I refuse to be damn 7 months pregnant trying to bend over to pick up dog shit in my dining room. Anyhow, we’ve put up baby gates all over the house. We figured we’d be buying them soon enough anyhow that we might as well go ahead and do it now. We have three gates up to keep him in the living room with us (yay open concept!). It’s pretty terrible, to be honest, because I either have to try and high step over a gate or take the trek to Siberia (aka the kitchen) which involves going down the hall and through the dining room. Look, it’s a long ass walk when you’re pregnant, tired and trying not to yak. But whatever, it’s working, he’s only had one accident in five days instead of five accidents in one day. Well, two were self explanatory and I put them up with no problem. Easy peasy. The third gate has a door on it and was not so easy peasy. I decide that instead of just letting Kevin do it that I would install this gate. I am woman, dammit. I quickly became the woman sitting on the floor, bawling her eyes out.
Kevin (wraps arm around me): Are you okay, sweetheart?
Me (wailing): This baby has to get your brain or else it’s fucked. I’m too stupid to even install a baby gate.
Kevin: Oooooohhhkaaaaayyyy (realizing we’re at a level 5 meltdown) let’s calm down. You’re not stupid.
Me (still wailing): I am. And if our baby gets my brain it’ll be stupid too. It has to get your brain.
Kevin: Alright – well, that’s not true. We’re gonna figure this out together. Relax. Deep breath.
Me (composing self – sniffling): okay
And by figure this out together he meant, I could sit there and look pretty while he did it. Well played, hormones, well played.
Example 2: I will include pictures of a burn I got. Stop reading now if you don’t want to see said pictures.
So, I’m standing in the kitchen making dinner. I’ve got like a teaspoon of EVOO in a cast iron skillet so I can sautee up some fresh corn.
This asshole starts rioting because I won’t let him into the kitchen with me. By rioting I mean barking, whining, scratching, fussing, just being an overwhelming dick because he’s not getting his way.
My dumbass, hot oil in the skillet, pops the spoon in it out of frustration and then find myself staring at an oil splatter all over my shirt/belly thinking to myself, “this isn’t good.” It was severe enough that it didn’t hurt initially. The pain didn’t set in for another 5 minutes.
I looked down and lord jesus. LORD JESUS. The skin was peeling off of my body. I panic. Like legit panic. I run to Kevin yelling, “DID I KILL THE BABY??? DID I?????????????” Again, he tells me to relax and calm down and assures me I didn’t. I am not so certain.
Kevin goes to Walgreen’s to get me big ass bandaids. While he’s gone I feverishly Google what I might have done to Lil Baby Fat and called my mom (a nurse) to also confirm I hadn’t injured Lil Baby Fat. Everyone (including Dr. Google) seemed fairly confident I was fine and so was Lil Baby Fat.
We had an OB appointment yesterday and you better believe I ripped my bandaid off and had her also confirm Lil Baby Fat was safe.
Worth mentioning: I only gained 1lb at my OB appt! WOOHOO! Our next appt (July 15th) is when we find out the sex. (Everyone is leaning girl, including our midwife, but I’m not so sure.) Heartbeat has stayed in the high 150s.
For those of you that endured my gross pictures, you’re being rewarded with these pictures: